


Prodigal

by theroguesgambit



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: F/M, Family, Hale family - Freeform, Jackson returns, M/M, Mentions of canon character death, Nightmares, background sterek, jackson hale, post s.3
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-08
Updated: 2014-08-09
Packaged: 2018-01-24 01:18:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1586357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theroguesgambit/pseuds/theroguesgambit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jackson isn’t deluded enough to think he can ever really escape all this werewolf crap.  But he had figured moving across the freaking ocean would be enough to get him away from all the <em>Hale</em> werewolf crap at least.<br/>--<br/>Jackson gets fed up with his continuing nightmares and comes back from London after the season 3 finale.  Or, the one where Jackson is actually Peter's son.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, this just sort of swept over me last night, when I saw Colton on "Arrow" and realized how much I miss Jackson. Based on the [Jackson Hale Theory](http://halekingsourwolf.tumblr.com/post/82527165123/jackson-hale-dropped-arc-theory) I had a while back.

Jackson isn’t deluded enough to think he can ever really escape all this werewolf crap. He’s a full on wolf now, he’s got urges to howl at the blue corn moon or whatever, and that’s fine since it also means he kicks ass at fake British football (when are these idiots gonna wise up and realize lacrosse is where it’s at?) and won’t ever have to deal with a cold. Like _ever.  
_

But he _had_ figured moving across the freaking ocean would be enough to get him away from all the _Hale_ werewolf crap at least.

He’d definitely figured wrong.

Four months on the opposite side of the globe, and he still wakes up in the middle of the night to the sound of screaming, to the scent of smoke and burned flesh filling up his nostrils.

He’d manned up once enough to call Isaac – the most bearable out of Hale’s stupid pack except for maybe Erica, but it’s too weird to talk to Erica ‘cause Jackson still remembers what she’d been like as a dork, and besides, she and Boyd had been smart enough to skip out on Hale before summer started and it isn’t like Jackson has her number.

He hadn’t gotten any helpful answers, anyway. Either Isaac was messing with him, or Jackson’s the only one of Derek’s betas dreaming of the night his house burned to a crisp.

Which is a special bond Jackson no way in hell wanted.

Not like he doesn’t have nightmares of his own to deal with – kanamas and creepy photographers and creepier old men, and this strange flash of panic that still steals his breath away every time he gets near a big body of water. Hale can keep his own damn nightmares, alright?

He finally ends up calling Derek toward the end of November – he’d almost deleted the guy’s number about a dozen times when he’d first moved, but there’d been that echo of a stupid Alpha growl in Jackson’s brain telling him to keep it for emergencies. And it wasn’t like Derek had been _controlling_ him when he said it ‘cause, hell, he would’ve chucked his phone under a tire and run it down if he thought for a second he had been, but the tone and the look on his face had left Jackson wondering what kind of dangers he might run into that he’d need Hale’s help from across the ocean for.

He doesn’t love the idea of going on another killing spree… or getting killed.  So he’d kept the number.

And now the creep can’t even be bothered to answer when he needs him.

He calls five times in five days, and by the last one Jackson is so beyond done.

Which was why, when school goes to break two weeks later, Jackson passes up an opportunity to spend Christmas in the Caimans and hops a flight for Beacon Hills instead.

.-

He should’ve known Lydia would find out about his coming even before he gets there. She’s standing, arms crossed tight across her faux-fur coated chest, outside the airport in Graskin. Three towns from Beacon Hills. Never underestimate the lengths Lydia Martin will go to in the name of making an entrance.

“You didn’t rent a hotel room anywhere in Beacon Hills,” she says by way of greeting. “If you think for a second you’re staying with me, you’ve seriously got another thing coming.”

And then she’s running forward, wrapping her arms around him and hugging him tight, burying her face in his chest hard enough to smudge her makeup. He drops his bag, startled, because as much as he knows he’s a catch and hell to get over, he knows Lydia better. And this is definitely not a Welcome Home hug.

“You missed the funeral,” she says, her voice choked. “But I’m glad you came.”

He wraps his arms around her, smelling the strawberry in her lip balm, smelling the sorrow wafting off her in waves. He almost doesn’t want to ask.

“Lyd, whose funeral?”

.-

Jackson doesn’t know what to feel, standing in the December twilight over Allison Argent’s grave. It isn’t like it is in the movies – gravestones take weeks to commission and carve, grass takes at least as long to grow back after a hole’s been dug in it. So he finds himself staring down at a rectangle of dirt and fading flowers.

Lydia’s crouching in front of him, Prada heels sinking into damp dirt as she fusses over the arrangements: pulling out the flowers that have gone too brown, shifting the photographs and cards that have been laid out as temporary markers. He sees Allison smiling next to her father, Allison holding Scott. He sees a picture of himself, Lydia and Allison standing by the school bleachers, laughing over something. He doesn’t know who took it, but it makes him look away fast.

“I didn’t know,” he says, not for the first time. “I would’ve… called or something if I’d known.” And he really thinks he would’ve.

Lydia’s next breath drags in a sharply and she stands, a handful of dead flowers in one manicured fist.

“Well, you would’ve known if you’d stayed in touch.” He can sense the anger under her words, can sense just as clearly that she doesn’t want to push it. It’s like they’re dating again, standing in a school hallway or at a party, on the verge of a fight except that Lydia refuses to make a scene.

She stares down at the flowers for a few more seconds, until the need to say _something_ bubbles up and over.

“It looks nice,” is what comes out, but she shoots Jackson a look that could be anything from “obviously” to “that’s the best you can come up with?”

“We should go,” she sighs. “Graveyard’s closing. And I told the others I’d be ready to research if they need me.”

.-

Despite her earlier claim, she drives Jackson straight to her house. They don’t talk much along the way – Lydia’s always been the talker and she seems strangely quiet today. Well, maybe not _strangely_. They had just come from her best friend’s grave.

And Jackson still isn’t sure how that even happened.

“Did a werewolf get her?” He asks finally, once they’ve parked. Lydia’s a hell of a multitasker, but he’s not sure he trusts her to talk about Allison’s death and drive at the same time. He was right to wait, because her hands go white on the wheel, and the look she levels on him is so venomous he feels a flash of familiar panic (wait, had he done it? He doesn’t remember doing it but… hell, he’d been in London, he _couldn’t_ have done it. Right?)

Crap, his head is screwed up.

“Actually, it was an Oni, a Japanese spirit. It stabbed her through the chest while she was trying to save me from the demon that had possessed Stiles.”

He stares at her, sick at her raw tone and halfway hoping for a punch line. ‘Cause werewolves? Ok. And kanimas? They were basically werewolves with their heads screwed on wrong.  But Japanese spirits, and possessions, and... _demons_?

“What the hell happened here when I left?”

She makes a faint, frustrated (oddly, comfortingly familiar) sound before pushing the car door open and stalking out.

Jackson stares after her departing back.

“Seriously, what the hell?”

.-

Lydia’s room is transformed from when he’d last been here. Back in July, it’d been a girl’s bedroom. Now it looks like more of a crime lab. There are charts everywhere, bullets scattered along one edge of a desk, notes and bits of leaves and flowers that his wolf nose takes one sniff at and decides to stay far away from.

“What’s the deal with Mexico?” he asks, because that seems to be a common theme. There are maps taped up over the walls, X’s marked over whole towns, carefully drawn lines, and notes scrawled in a messy hand that definitely isn’t Lydia’s.

Lydia trails a tired gaze over the disaster of a landscape that’d once been her bedroom.

“Most of the pack’s down there now, but they should be back soon. Assuming things go well, which,” she trails off with a shrug, lips tilting ironically. “This all started out in Stiles’ room but when he and Scott and the Tate-Hales went down south, it made more sense to move it than to have me run back and forth.”

She’s being vague on purpose and Jackson knows when he’s being punished. Still…

“ _Stilinski_? You hang out in Stilinski’s bedroom, now?”

She lifts her chin, arching a brow at him.

“Like it’s your business if I do?”

And he glares straight back because obviously the answer’s no, and obviously it’s still bugging the crap out of him.

Because Lydia was gonna move on, duh, and she could get anyone she wanted. But _Stilinski_?

He opens his mouth to ask again, to try and get some answer out of her that isn’t completely vague and twisted up and frustrating, but she beats him to it.

“If you didn’t come back because of Allison, why are you here?”

It sounds so petty now in his head, now that he has some idea about what’s been going on in Beacon Hills (not that he _really_ has any clue what’s been going on, but it sounds like it’s been a mess for everyone). So he doesn’t say “I’ve been having nightmares” or “I’ve been having weird, maybe magical dreams” or “I think maybe I’m going a little bit crazy.”

He says: “I need to talk to Derek.”

And she smirks a little, bitter and tired.

“Well, if he gets away from Kate Argent alive, I’m sure he’ll be thrilled to see you.”

And then she scoops up her phone and strolls out of the room on clipping heels, leaving him staring after.

Because seriously. Seriously? _Kate Argent?_

What the _hell_?

.-

“It’s only been four months.”

He’s said that maybe six times in the past half hour.

Lydia just rolls her eyes, stabbing a fork into her salad and taking what feels like a particularly vindictive bite.

He hasn’t touched his burger. Well, he’s touched it. Lifted it halfway to his mouth about a dozen times before setting it back down, staring across the table, wide-eyed, at Lydia.

His Lydia.

A banshee.

‘Cause those exist now, too.

“You would’ve known if you’d just—“

“Stayed in touch, yeah.” She’s said that about as many times as he’s thrown out his line. They’re a pair of broken records, the two of them.

She’s silent for a few seconds, placing her fork back on the table, folding her fingers.

“You wanted out, Jackson. You saw an opportunity after last spring and you took it.” For the first time all day, she doesn’t sound like she’s blaming him. He still scowls; now that she’s calm, it’s his turn to be indignant. It’s a familiar pattern, and it’s strange how much he’s missed it.

“You know, I couldn’t exactly help where my dad got a job, Lyd.”

“You could help that you didn’t call. That you made a new Skype account? And don’t just pretend we’re never on at the same time or some crap like that. ‘Cause time difference or no, that’s seriously not gonna fly.”

He rolls his eyes, not bothering to mention that he hasn’t touched social media since he’d moved. What the hell would be the point?

Because, yeah. He’d definitely been shutting out everyone he’d known here.

“And now after all this time you show up because you want to talk to _Derek_? Seriously?”

He averts his eyes, shrugging.

“It’s a werewolf thing.”

“Well, I’ve gotten pretty good at handling werewolf things.”

There’s definitely an innuendo there, the way her lips curl around the words. He can’t tell if it’s serious or another tease, like the Stilinski thing had been. (She isn’t seriously screwing around with Stilinski, is she?)

But then her eyes fall, and he knows there’s something serious there, something he is definitely, absolutely, Not Allowed To Touch On.

“What happened with a werewolf?” he asks immediately. (And goddamnit, if it’s Scott freaking McCall…)

Lydia looks up, eyes flaring, and Jackson wonders if she can summon her banshee whatever powers on demand, because she looks about ready to _shriek_ —

Then her phone rings, and she’s snatching it up and stalking away from the table, putting it to her ear, retreating far enough into the house that he can only hear her end of the call.

“Hello—Malia? Yeah, hon, you dialed the phone right. I know, the touch screen… look, are we—” Frustration transforms into an excited screech. “ _Yes!_ I knew that strain would affect her. Are you sure she’s… And is Derek… _right_ , well he would. Look, tell him to call me when he’s done playing nursemaid. And do me a favor – watch the body burn, ok? We don’t want this happening a third time.”

She ends the call, letting out a short, excited squeal that Jackson still associates with a winning lacrosse game or a strike in bowling. These days, Lydia apparently squeals over the idea of burning the bodies of were-zombies.

He’d thought he had it bad in London. He’d really had no idea, had he?

He sits numbly at the table, waiting for Lydia to come back in. She doesn’t, and a second later she’s talking again.

“Sheriff? It all worked. Without a hitch, it sounds like.” She laughs, light and easy. “I know, right? But apparently everyone’s good – I mean, as good as can be expected. They’ll be heading back as soon as they’re done cleaning up there.” She pauses, foot tapping lightly on the living room carpet. “Sir, you know that wouldn’t have worked. What she was... there’s no way the law could’ve handled that.” And then: “He’s fine. He’s looking after Derek; they’ve got about a month of bickering to catch up on, you know? I’m sure he’ll call you in a bit. …Ok. Would you mind calling Mrs. McCall? I need to get in touch with Isaac and Argent, let them know they don’t have to rush back. I mean, I think Mr. Argent will probably want to anyway, but… yes, right. I will.” She laughs again, more relief than amusement. “You too.”

And then she goes quiet again, save for the rapidfire tapping of her fingers on her phone.

Jackson’s own hands move slowly, lifting his burger, lowering it. It’s still hanging somewhere halfway between his mouth and the plate when Lydia comes back in, pressing her lips together like she wants to hide a grin.

“Well, sounds like you’ll get to talk to Derek after all.”

Which is good and all, ‘cause he’d sat on a plane for eleven hours for a confrontation, but Jackson’s brain is still stuck on the whole: “The Sheriff knows? And McCall's mom?”

Wait, had he known about Scott’s mom? …Honestly, he hadn’t cared enough either way. Point was: “Does everyone in this freaking town know about all the supernatural crap now?”

“Not everyone,” she says, and there’s no humor in the smirk she sends his way, just pure vindictive pleasure at his misery. (Apparently her good mood about the Mexico trip doesn't extend to him) “But the Oni attack on the hospital and the human sacrifices might’ve made some people suspicious. Oh, and apparently Danny’s been in the know for a long time. Which you would’ve known if you’d—”

“Kept in touch. Right.”

Danny seriously knew? _Danny?_ Had he known when Jackson was still here? Why hadn’t he said anything?

His mouth is hanging open; he needs something to do with it.

He takes a bite of cold burger, and tries to digest everything.


	2. Chapter 2

Jackson spends a restless night on the couch.

He hadn’t actually _expected_ Lydia’s wordless decision to let him stay at her house after all to mean she’d let him sleep in her bed too (he hadn’t exactly _not_ expected it, but there’d been no real surprise when she’d hovered, arms crossed, in her doorway and shut him out). He _hadn’t_ expected the arched brow and the pointed “you know where the couch is” because they both knew Lydia had _two_ guest bedrooms there was no reason he shouldn’t be able to use.

So she's punishing him. Fine, he's used to that.

He tries to earn a little sympathy over breakfast, grumbling over how the stupid uneven cushions had kinked up his back, but all he gets for his troubles is a wry look and a “you must not be a very tough werewolf if a couch can beat you up.”

He doesn’t try for any more sympathy after that.

She spends most of the morning pointedly not making time for him, taking apart the complex bulletin boards in her room and organizing the information into piles and folders. It gets to the point, after about an hour of sitting in her desk chair, scanning through his phone and having his exasperated sighs pointedly ignored, that he actually rolls to his feet, pads across the room, and offers to help.

“Would you have the first clue how to catalogue wolfsbane toxicity based on its relative potency against certain werewolf subspecies?”

He’s not even sure most of those were words. His lips twist into a scowl because hey, he doesn’t exactly offer to help people with things every day and Lydia could at least be a _little_ appreciative that he made the effort, alright?

“No, right, I get it. I’d have some clue what you’re talking about if I’d ‘just kept in touch.’” Stilinski probably gets it. Hell, these look like they’re half Stilinski’s notes. Not that he knows what the dork’s handwriting looks like or anything, but this had mostly come from his room, right? And it’s definitely not all Lydia’s handwriting.

Lydia’s… god, can he even think it?... _study buddies_ with Stilinski. He feels his lips curling in a grimace.

Lydia just sighs, lifting another scrap of paper and frowning at the chicken-scratch there.

“Jackson, just… I don’t have time for this now. Go bother Danny or something.”

.-

He _doesn’t_ go to Danny because Lydia told him to. He goes because it’s _Danny_ , and he hasn’t seen the guy in months, and that’s been itching at every level of wrong in his brain since he stepped into town.

Not that Jackson seriously missed the guy or anything. He's Jackson Whittemore; he doesn’t miss people. People miss _him._ But he still feels a kind of loosening in his chest when he gets to the end of the Mahealanis’ driveway and sees Danny’s car parked there.

When the door swings open, revealing Danny’s morning-stubbled face, Jackson just smirks and says: “Four months and you’re still driving that piece of crap? Have I taught you _nothing_?”

Danny takes about half a beat, brows twitching up before his gaze slides behind Jackson to the driveway.

“You’re driving Lydia’s ride. You really sure you want to talk?”

That right there, that’s the great thing about Danny. He doesn’t offer any dramatic, shocked reactions, doesn’t get emotional or mushy or start snapping at Jackson for losing touch like _some_ people. Sure, maybe a little bit more of a fuss would’ve been nice, but Danny’s always been a pretty mellow guy. He gets that Jackson had needed some time. Maybe gets it better than Jackson had even realized.

It’s nice to have someone like that, someone he can count on to leave him alone when he needs space and still welcome him back afterward.

…Unlike some people.

He smirks.

“Just got back in the country last night. Give me a day.”

Danny rolls his eyes, stepping aside to let Jackson into the house.

“Did Lydia _let_ you borrow her car?”

“She told me to get out of the house for a while. What, like she expected me to _walk_ here?”

Knowing her, she probably had. But hello, who _walked_ places besides losers and poor people?

Danny’s quiet snort tells Jackson he’s followed his thoughts all too well.

It’s nice, for a minute, being home.

.-

They end up kicking a soccer ball around, because it’s simple and easy, and Jackson’s gotten really good at it after three months of playing with the school team. He’d probably be rusty in lacrosse, and he’s not about to play anything he might lose, no matter how much he misses the game.

They make it a whole half hour before it finally comes up. Jackson’s maybe dancing too quickly around the ball, dodging Danny’s attempts to steal with a hint of supernatural speed. But the guy just arches his brows, smiles a little, and says that it looks like Jackson really hit his stride with soccer.

He’s not going to acknowledge it _at all_.

Which is just infuriating enough to make Jackson stop altogether, kick the ball up into his waiting hands, and flash his eyes ice blue right in Danny’s face.

He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t need to. Danny slumps back a little, sighing.

“So Lydia mentioned I’m in the know.”

“She mentioned you might have known back before I left. What the hell, Mahealani? Didn’t ever occur to you to _mention_ that there were werewolves running around town?”

Danny’s brows go up.

“Did you?”

There’s no way to win from that, and Jackson doesn’t want to try. Danny is maybe the only person Jackson doesn’t constantly want to win against. …Maybe because his friend never makes him feel like he’s losing.

He drops the soccer ball, dribbling it absently between his feet, before passing it over to Danny.

“How’d you find out?”

Danny grins.

“Well, first off – Stiles and Scott are _terrible_ at subtlety.”

.-

“And then Stiles was hiding Derek Hale in his room and calling him his cousin ‘Miguel’ and I figured they were either secretly dating or something seriously shifty was going on…”

Jackson snorts, not least because _of course_ Danny would know what Derek looked like – he’s a fountain of knowledge about basically everything that needs knowing around town, and the Hale fire wasn’t even small news. And of course Stilinski would come up with the least convincing lie ever about it.

“And you put your bets on supernatural craziness over Stilinski getting some. Sounds about right.” Danny shrugs, leaning back against the picnic table they’ve set up camp at, breathing out white mist into the winter quiet of the park. Jackson drops his empty beer can to the ground, toeing at it. “Hey, he and Lydia aren’t…”

“Werewolves? Nah, I’m pretty sure they’re in the clear on that one.” But his eyes are laughing and his lips are doing that quiet, Danny ‘I don’t have to smirk at you because you can tell I’m messing with you, my jokes are just that good’ thing Jackson never thought he’d miss so badly. He just scowls back, and after a second Danny relents with a graceful shrug. “I don’t know, man, we’re not exactly tight. I try to steer clear from all that…” He lifts his hand waving it out toward the universe in general, and Jackson realizes with a small, familiar pang of abandonment that he’s included in Danny’s ‘that.’

“But I doubt it,” his friend adds. “I mean, it’s still only been a few weeks since Aiden.”

Which leads to a whole new set of revelations.

.-

He ignores at least a dozen texts from Lydia, which he knows will just be bitching about the borrowed car, and when he gets back to her house that night the building’s dark. The door’s locked, but that isn’t a problem for Jackson, and he’s played out comfortably on a guest room’s bed when he hears Lydia come in three hours later.

She looks tired but pleased, her familiar scent covered with a wash of others that Jackson feels like he should recognize but doesn’t, that call to him with a thrum of familiarity, _family_ , that he finds himself snuffing against, fighting to ignore.

The pack’s not his pack. Never were, not really.

“The locks aren’t broken,” Lydia says by way of greeting. There’s an edge to her voice, and Jackson knows she’s a heartbeat away from shouting at him about the car, the missed texts.

Jackson just rolls his eyes, folding his arms behind his head.

“Why would I break in when I have a key?”

It had happened right after that night at the warehouse, an idle gesture that she’d played off more as evening the odds – “I shouldn’t always have to be the one coming over” – but it had been more than that. They’d both known it.

Jackson wonders if she still has his key, to a house he doesn’t live in anymore.

…She isn’t really that sentimental. But then, neither is he.

She stares at him for a few seconds, eyes unreadable. Then she’s straightening her shoulders, huffing out a breath in that way she does when he’s _gotten_ to her and she doesn’t want people to know it.

“They’re back, anyway. Derek’s still recovering, but you can go talk to him tomorrow.”

She starts to turn away, pauses and turns to shoot him a look he learned long ago not to mess with.

“And I swear to _god_ Jackson, if you take my car and force me to wait around for the Beacon Hills cab service one more time, you’ll be sharing a space in Prada’s dog house for the remainder of your visit. Understood?”

**Author's Note:**

> [Come find me on Tumblr](http://halekingsourwolf.tumblr.com)


End file.
